Bones of the Dead
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: Sookie is a telepathic waitress. When her brother Jason gets sucked into a serial killer case, she launches her own investigation to clear his name. She gets involved with the FBI, forensic anthropologists and the vampire subculture
1. The Vampire in the Bar

**Bones of the Dead**

**Summary: **Bones/SVM crossover. Sookie Stackhouse is a telepathic waitress who works at a restaurant in Washington DC. When her brother gets sucked into a serial killer case, Sookie conducts her own investigation to clear Jason's name. This brings her into contact with the brilliant forensic anthropologist Dr Temperance Brennan, her partner FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth and one Eric Northman, the enigmatic ruler of all vampires in DC.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They all belong to their respective owners, Charlaine Harris and 20th Century Fox. The mistakes are all mine.

**Warning: **This is a crime story so there will be graphic descriptions of crime scenes, bodies, evidence etc. You have been warned.

**Chapter 1: The Vampire in the Bar**

Winter in Washington D.C. is full of people walking in the streets with their hands stuffed in their pockets. Snow is churned into grey slush on the roads by millions of feet and wheels. The bell rings as yet another potential customer escapes into the warmth of the cosy little diner just opposite the Jeffersonian Institute. Its faded red leather seats are soft and welcome to tired people looking for a place to sit and wind down for a few minutes before they go back to their cluttered and busy lives.

The smell of whisky is strong. It mingles with the aromas of tomato pasta and meatloaf. You meet all sorts of people here. Professionals, people down on their luck, mothers juggling full-time jobs and their families; everyone needs food, and our food is pretty good. And then there are those who deal with the dead. Not the walking dead —vampires— who came out of the coffin two years ago. No, I mean the people who deal with the truly dead and decomposing. See what I mean about all sorts of people? Frankly, I'm surprised they have an appetite after what facing what they do at work. I guess you adapt to your environment, no matter what that might be.

As a waitress, I witness the lives of all these people, perhaps even more than my fellow servers, because I'm not just any waitress.

I'm a telepathic waitress. Sookie Stackhouse is my name. I work at a restaurant called the Founding Fathers, and I also read people's minds. Maybe I should put that on my CV. It might get me a better job; one that actually covers my bills.

As a result of my special ability —disability, most of the time— I constantly see live feeds of crime scenes, of maggot-infested eye-sockets and discoloured skin slipping off greasy bones. I sometimes even smell the scent of decomposition when I make the mistake of not keeping my mental shields up. Although, from a forensic scientist's point of view, 'decomp' is just another unpleasant scent that's part of their lives, much like the smell of stale grease is a part of mine.

Yeah, yeah. I could probably better myself, get a degree or somethin'. I hear ya. The thing is, high school was hard enough for me, what with all those teenage hormones and the gossip and the insecurities. I don't think I can make it through another four years of that. College is like glorified high school with bigger fees.

"Hey, Sook!" calls the barista. "We're stayin' late for drinks tonight!" That's Tara, my best friend from high school. She, like me, could have gone to college but neither of us had the money. At least I had my brother Jason to help me from time to time if Gran and I ever needed it. Tara's supporting her alcoholic mother on her own. It ain't easy, but Tara's tough.

"What are we celebratin'?" I ask.

"Don't you remember? It's Sam's birthday!"

Sam Merlotte is the owner of the restaurant. He's also my friend and I think he has a crush on me. Too bad for him, he's safely cordoned off in the 'friend zone', as are most of the guys in my life. It's safer and less complicated that way, believe me. Dating doesn't work very well for people like me. No, I don't mean blonde-haired blue-eyed tanned waitresses with long toned legs —it comes with the job— and an hourglass figure. I mean telepaths. Do I really want to know what a guy thinks of my ass, or worse, what they want to _do_ to my ass? I don't think so.

So here I am, twenty five, single, and virginal. Sometimes I wonder if there would be less hassle if I went and became a nun. But then, I'm not into organized religion.

I see my one of my best customers come into the diner for dinner. Dr Temperance Brennan is one of my favourite authors. She's also a great tipper and I don't have to worry about reading her mind because a) I don't understand any of the scientific mumbo-jumbo in her head and b) she always says what she thinks. She's with her work partner, FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth. As usual, they're arguing about something. Seriously, I think they should just get married or something. I know Agent Booth likes Dr Brennan —I don't read their minds deliberately; it's just that their mutual attraction is rather obvious, even to people who can't read minds.

"There are no such things as vampires!" Dr Brennan is saying.

"Then what would you call people with fangs who can only come out during the night, are immortal, and drink blood?" asks Agent Booth.

"Perhaps their characteristics match that of the traditional concept of a vampire, but the idea of dead bodies getting up out of their coffins and growing fangs is ridiculous and completely irrational. It goes against all the laws of science."

"So how would you explain the existence of _these_ vampires?"

I interrupt the conversation to take their order, and then leave them to discuss the probability of a mutation that makes people immortal and allergic to the sun. And then I see him. A vampire.

I've never met a vampire before even though I live in a large city. I guess most of them don't come to middle-class restaurants like the Founding Fathers. Although Sam has bought a case of that synthetic blood just in case one happens to drop in. I guess he was right to do so.

The vampire sits down at one of my tables. He glows —no, I don't mean that he's fluorescent or anything. There's just this aura around him. I can't really explain it. I reach out with my mind to try and discern what type of person he is. To my surprise, I find only silence. It thrills me and scares me at the same time.

I take a deep breath and approach him. "Hi," I say, plastering on my best 'Crazy Sookie' smile. "I'm Sookie and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get ya?"

He gives me a small smile. "Do you have any of that True Blood?" he asks. He has a southern accent. His dark hair flops in an unruly manner over his high forehead. His skin is extremely pale and his lips are rather thin. He's not _not_ handsome but I wouldn't take him over Orlando Bloom.

"Yeah, sure," I say as I write that down on my pad. "We only have A positive, though. Is that okay?"

"A positive is fine," says the vampire. I practically bounce off to get his bottled synthetic blood. A vampire! How exciting! The announcement of the invention of a synthetic blood product by a Japanese company came just one month before the vampires' revelation. I think the vampires timed it that way so that they can say that they're not a threat to humanity because they can drink this synthetic stuff. The revelation was an event that shocked the world. A lot of people were scared. Some people, I guess, still think it's a hoax. I suppress the urge to giggle. Dr Brennan is still trying to explain away the existence of vampires when there's one sitting just one table away from her.

"Did you get a boyfriend, Sookie?" asks Arlene. Arlene Fowler is another of my friends at the restaurant. We're a pretty close bunch at the Founding Fathers. She has long –dyed- red hair that's the texture of straw due to all the products she uses. "You seem very happy."

"There's a vampire here," I whisper.

"A vampire? Dear Lord!" Arlene crosses herself. I guess she's not as keen on the idea as I am.

I take the top off the bottle of True Blood and then stick it in the microwave. When the microwave beeps after thirty seconds, I put my thumb over the mouth of the bottle and shake it to even out the temperature of the blood, as per the instructions. What the instructions don't say is what one should serve True Blood in. A mug? A glass? A champagne flute? I settle on a plain glass like the type you serve a whisky on the rocks in. I don't pour the blood. If the vampire wants to drink out of a glass, he can pour his blood himself.

"Thank you, Sookie," says the vampire when I bring him his blood. "My name is Bill Compton."

"Well…nice to meet you, Mr Compton," I say awkwardly. Why is he introducing himself all of a sudden? It seems very odd.

I turn to my other tables. Agent Booth's meatloaf —sans boiled eggs— is ready. As I deliver the meatloaf, I suddenly hear something that I really don't like.

A couple called Mack and Denise Rattray have come to the restaurant. They look totally out of place here with all the rest of the middle class professionals. The Rattrays are dealers. Drug dealers, to be exact, and tonight, they're replenishing their stocks. They're not just looking for any drug. They're looking for a certain type of drug.

V is the street name for vampire blood, and the only way to get vampire blood is to go and drain a vampire.

There is a vampire right here.

I see Denise sidling up to Bill Compton. No, this just _won't_ do. I march up to the table. "Can I get you anything?" I ask the dealers as I blink furiously at Mr Compton, trying to tell him to get away from them. Mr Compton doesn't get it.

"I'll have a beer and some of those cheese fries," says Mack without so much as looking at my face. He's too busy leering at my chest.

"I'll have a salad," says Denise.

"What kind?" I ask.

"Chicken caesar."

I can't do anything except take their orders and deliver them their food. They're asking Mr Compton about where he's from. Soon, Mr Compton gets up to leave with them. _Hell_ no!

I don't know what I can do or what's taken over me, but I follow them. They go out the back to the parking lot there. I sense them in a back alley littered with used condoms and hypodermic needles from heroin addicts.

I hear pained moans coming from the alley. They're already draining him!

Rather than confronting them myself and be killed for my efforts, I run back inside. After all, if one of your customers is FBI, you might as well make the most of the fact.

—

The next morning, I'm all over the third page of the news. I guess the story's not good enough to make front page, but it's good enough for the second most important news page. "Look at you, Sook!" says Tara over the phone. Her phone call woke me up. She's more excited about this than I am. "You're celebrity!"

"I'm the latest flavour, Tara," I say. "Is Sam mad that I missed his party?" I had to go away and give statements to the police —like explain how I found out about the Rattrays draining Mr Compton; I told them I needed to go out for a little bit of fresh air— and I stayed there for a while.

"He's not mad, but he was worried about you," says Tara. "You should go out with him, Sook. Everyone knows he has a thing for you. Who knows? It might work out."

"Tara, we've been over this before. I don't want to risk ruining a friendship."

"How do you know it's going to be bad if you don't even try it?"

"I've just had far too many bad experiences."

"And what if that's causing you to miss out on a good experience? Sam's not like those other guys."

That's true. I can't read Sam's mind the way I can read other humans' minds. I would have loved to ask him what he is, but what sort of question is that? I haven't told him what I am. Only Tara and my family know.

Gran's cutting out the story from the newspaper. I hope she's not going to frame it. "I'm so proud of you, sweetheart," she says when she sees me come into the dining room with two cups of tea. "It was a brave thing you did."

"Agent Booth did most of the work," I say as I sit down opposite her and set the cups on the coffee table.

"Yes, he is quite a hunk, isn't he?"

"Gran!"

"It's just a comment, honey. Who was the vampire?"

"His name's Bill Compton. That's all I know. Oh, and he has a southern accent."

"I wonder how old he is? Do you think he saw the War?" By 'the War', Gran really means the American Civil War. Her family's from Louisiana and some of her ancestors fought in it. Gran's also just your usual history buff, like me. I would have gone and gotten a history degree in college if I'd had the money, but I don't.

When my parents died in a freak accident, Gran took in my brother Jason and me. I was seven, Jason was ten. We were very lucky that we didn't go into foster care.

"I don't know, Gran. I only served him his bottled blood," I say. I glance at the paper to see what they've said about the incident, only to be distracted by another headline.

'Vampire suspected in slaying,' it says. Below the headline is a picture of Maudette Pickens, who was in my class in senior year. She was held back for a year. It turns out that Maudette is the fourth victim in a series of murders with similar MOs, but the cops didn't manage to link all the murders until recently because they crossed state lines, and the different state police departments don't communicate as well as we would like to think. All the victims had vampire bite marks, and they were all dumped in prominent places —as prominent as body dumps go— naked with their hands bound in front of them. The report doesn't go into too much more detail, probably for fear of copycats, but it does mention that Maudette was last seen with one Jason Stackhouse.

Gran's seen it too. "Oh my," she whispers.

This does not look good for Jason.

—

It is a normal day at the forensic lab at the Jeffersonian. There are bodies on the platform waiting to be examined, chemicals to analyze and bugs to be identified. Plus an impatient FBI agent who has no patience for detailed explanations about science. Just another day at the office.

"The sperm found in the victim's vaginal tract belongs to Jason Stackhouse," says Dr Camille Saroyan, chief coroner and team leader, as she climbs up the steps to the forensic platform.

"That only proves he had sexual intercourse with her," says Temperance Brennan, author, forensic anthropologist and all-round genius. She doesn't look away from the x-rays she's examining. The body lies on the table "The hyoid bone is fractured, suggesting strangulation."

"Just like the others," says the impatient FBI agent, a certain Special Agent Seeley Booth. "What about the bite marks?"

"There are two puncture wounds on her thighs, Booth," says Brennan. "There's nothing to indicate that they are bite marks. She got them approximately forty-eight hours before she died."

"Well, if you can't tell me anything else, I'm going to question Jason Stackhouse," says Booth.

—

Jason Stackhouse doesn't have the face of a killer. He is blond, handsome, and not very bright. At the moment, he's twisting his hands nervously and he seems to be on the verge of tears. "It was an accident!" he blurts out as soon as Booth sits down opposite him in the interrogation room. That is…a quick confession. "She told me to play rough, so I did. I put my hands around her neck and squeezed, and I squeezed, and then she just didn't move!"

Maudette Pickens died from being strangled by something bendy and flat, with an edge. Either Jason Stackhouse is a very good liar, or he really has no idea what happened.

"I panicked, so I just left!" Stackhouse continues. "I'm sorry!" He _does_ burst into tears.

Booth's phone rings. It's Angela. She has something to show him.

—

Angela Montenegro is an artist. By that, she really means she likes creating works of art. However, it's hard to sell art so she ended up drawing dead people for a day job. She's also responsible for reconstructing anything graphical that is in need of reconstructing. Right now, she's working on a sex tape. No, it's not one of her. It's one of the suspect —who has very nice abs and a cute butt— and the victim.

Speaking of cute butts, she hears Booth come into her workroom. "Hey, whatcha got for me?" he asks.

"I'm fine, thanks for asking," says Angela as she pauses the video.

"Sorry," says Booth. The FBI agent hooks his thumbs under his belt. "You said you had something for me?"

"Yeah," says Angela. "Check this out. This is Jason Stackhouse with Maudette Pickens the night she was murdered. Note the clock on the wall. It says it's nine thirty at night." She fast-forwards through the strangulation sex part. There is no need to watch that in detail. She's already checked it out and there's nothing special about it. She resumes normal playing speed once Maudette Pickens appears to have died.

"Stackhouse did confess to the murder, saying that he killed her accidentally during sex," says Booth.

"But then watch this," says Angela. On the screen, Jason Stackhouse leaves in a panic, and once he's gone, Maudette Pickens starts laughing. "Unless Stackhouse came back afterwards to kill her, he didn't do it."

The scene on the screen continues to play out. Maudette Pickens is still bound, suspended from a hook hanging from her roof. Someone else comes in.. At first, they can only see the man's heavily tattooed back and the back of his bald head, but then he turns around. His face seems to be the only part of him that's free of tattoos, but that's not what really stands out.

He has fangs.

"Why anybody will let _that_ bite them voluntarily, I will never know," says Angela.

—

Bones are Dr Brennan's territory. Flesh, however, is Cam's. With her tailored dress and high heels, she's not exactly dressed for performing autopsies, but that's what scrubs and gloves are for.

Decomposition happens more slowly during winter, which is a bad thing for murderers but great for those who try to catch them. Maudette Pickens was discovered in a dump station by a couple of workers going back to work after the weekend. Most of her skin is still intact. There are a few brave nibbles here and there, mostly from rats, but the cold means that most of the usual carrion eaters, such as the bluebottles and the blow flies, have yet to begin their work on the body.

Cam runs the black light over her, trying to pick up anything that the naked eye might have missed. A partial mark shows up on the back of her hand. It's a stamp of some sort. Most of it is gone, but Cam can make out the letters '—asia'. She takes a photo of the stamp. Perhaps Angela might be able to match it up to something.

—

It's back to Jason Stackhouse again. This time, Booth is asking him about the vampire who went to…uh…_see_ Maudette Pickens after Stackhouse left. This time, Booth has the FBI psychologist and profiler listening in on the conversation from behind the one way glass. Lance Sweets might be young, but he is one of the best at his job. Not that Booth will ever tell him that unless the time really calls for it. He doesn't believe in inflating other people's egos unnecessarily. Besides, he's sure that Sweets knows he's good. Only the best get to work for the FBI.

"You mean she weren't dead?" Stackhouse blurts out. "So I didn't kill her?"

"Did you?" asks Booth.

"I thought I did…but if she was still alive _after_ I left…" The FBI agent can practically see Stackhouse's valiant attempt to work it all out inside his head. "…that'd mean I_ didn't_kill her...right…?"

"I don't think he's lying," says Sweets' voice through Booth's earpiece. Booth doesn't think Stackhouse is lying either. He doesn't seem to be intelligent enough to pull off such an elaborate act. However, appearances can be deceiving, although the evidence does speak for him in this case. Still, it's very difficult to come to any conclusions before the murder weapon is found.

Booth's phone rings. It's Cam. She's got something from the body. "You're free to go for now, Mr Stackhouse," he says as he stands up. "But do us a favour and don't leave town."

—

"Angela's matching up the stamp right now," says Cam as Booth makes his way over to the lab. It's not good practise to talk on the phone and drive at the same time, he knows, but hey, he's got great reflexes and his phone is on speakerphone. "My guess is that it's from some sort of nightclub."

"There are some pretty seedy places around town," remarks Booth as he pulls up outside the lab.

Angela's workroom always reminds Booth of the interior of a spaceship, with all those buttons and screens and controllers. He makes sure that he doesn't touch anything, in case he wrecks something. A half-finished painting of an impressionistic still-life stands in the corner, the canvas and oil paints a fitting juxtaposition to all the advanced technology that Angela always seems to be surrounded with.

"How are you, Angela?" he asks, remembering how he neglected to greet her earlier this morning.

"I'm still the same as the last time you saw me," says Angela, turning around to give him a knowing smile. He flashes her his million-watt grin. No woman can resist that grin.

"Do you have anything for me yet?" asks the FBI agent.

"Well, like Cam has most likely told you, I'm running the partial stamp found on the victim's hand through the database of stamps," she says. "Hodgins is analyzing the ink."

"And Hodgins has identified the components of the ink," says the voice as a man of mediocre height strides into the room brandishing a file, which is undoubtedly full of graphs and tables that might as well be hieroglyphics to Booth. Dr Jack Hodgins is the 'bug and slime' expert. That means he's actually an entomologist and a mineralogist, but 'bug and slime' has such a good ring to it.

"Can we skip all the scientific mumbo jumbo and get to the point, please?" asks Booth. He doesn't know any of those horribly long chemical names, anyway. No one else does either, not even Bones, and that's saying a lot.

"What I found was a very common water based ink with red pigmentation," says Hodgins. "That on its own is not very helpful, _but_ I also found traces of asbestos."

"I'll run a check on all the nightclubs in older areas where there are still asbestos in buildings," says Angela. Very soon, the computer beeps. "There we go." Angela turns the screen around as if she's showing off something bizarre to the two men. Both Booth and Hodgins lean in closer to look at the stamp —and the picture of the nightclub.

Fangtasia.

—

I am so relieved when I answer the door of my apartment —well, mine and Gran's— to find Jason standing there. Jason might not be the best brother in the world, but he's the only brother I've got. "Oh, thank God, Jason!" I breathe. "What's going on?"

"I dunno…" he says. He's dazed by the entire experience and in a bit of shock. His thoughts are being broadcasted very clearly. I see the interrogation room, I sense his fear. He thought he killed Maudette accidentally during sex — EWWWWW! _So_ not going there! But then it turns out that he _didn't_ kill her. He doesn't think so, at any rate. My brother is hardly ever sure of anything, not even what's going on in his own head.

Agent Booth questioned him. I've never really seen the FBI at work before, despite a good number of them coming to the Founding Fathers for after work drinks. I've never thought of Agent Booth as being just a funny guy, but his interrogation of Jason only proves that he is the real deal. He was firm, he wasn't overly harsh —although Jason was close to tears anyway so I guess he didn't have to be too harsh. At any rate, I'm glad that Jason isn't too traumatized. He is still confused. He's also very angry about Maudette getting involved with vampires.

Jason Stackhouse is not a fan of vampires. He can never say why, but he just doesn't like them. They give him the chills. It must be noted that Jason has _never_ met a vampire in his entire life. The undead might be out of their coffins, but it doesn't mean that they're all over the place like cockroaches. I mean, I work in the hospitality business and I've only met one vampire so far. I also know that my co-worker, Dawn, likes sleeping with them.

In every situation, there are always extremes. On one side are the vampire haters who believe that they're demons who came out from the deepest pits of hell to lure humanity to evil and darkness. On the other end of the scale are the vampire groupies. There's a very nasty word for them but I don't like using it. Anyway, back to the topic. Dawn loves vampires. Rather, she lusts after them. She says that their long lives mean that they have tons of experience, both in bed and out. She also loves the thrill of cavorting with some of the most dangerous creatures ever known to mankind. I wonder if she would find the same thrill in cavorting with…say…alligators? Then again, alligators aren't half as pretty as the vampire she has a thing for. Well, I wouldn't call him pretty but he is very nice to look at, although experience has told me that thoughts are not particularly accurate as they can be warped by people's prejudices.

Dawn is also sleeping with Jason. I'll bet Jason will be _very_ pissed that two of his girls are with vampires. I know my brother.

So when Dawn turns up dead the next day, all eyes immediately turn to Jason.

—

The FBI do not believe in coincidences. Since the last person Dawn was seen alive with is also Jason, he's now officially a suspect. It doesn't help that his DNA is all over her apartment. Plus they found his…stuff. You know. _Stuff_.

I know my brother didn't kill Dawn. Jason might be prejudiced and narrow-minded and incredibly un-smart, but he's not a killer. My guess? I think he's being framed because he's too dumb to defend himself. Sorry, Jase, but that's just a fact. Plus we're not exactly rich enough to hire a great lawyer, so he'll be an easy scapegoat.

I pick the brains of the investigators to try and determine all the known facts about the murders. I have to do something about this. Gran always said that God gave me my 'gift' for a reason. I've always been of the opinion that God should take it back. Still, it's come in useful occasionally. This is one of those occasions.

I find out that both Dawn and Maudette had stamps from a nightclub called Fangtasia. I guess that's where I'm going tonight. I just need a date.

—

After his draining, Mr Compton sent me a bouquet of flowers to thank me. He also left his phone number and hinted that he might be interested in getting to know me better. All in all, it seems to be very normal behaviour for a guy who likes a girl. I don't feel that way about him, of course, but one date can't do any harm now, can it? Besides, it's not really a date. I need to investigate a vampire-run nightclub and I need protection, plus someone to help me navigate through the waters of the vampire subculture.

I think I might have picked up too many of Dr Brennan's thoughts.

I call Mr Compton and explain what it is I plan to do, which is go there and scan the thoughts of the patrons to see if there's anyone suspicious in relation to the two murders. Not that I actually tell him I'm going to go in and read minds. What I say is that I'm going to Fangtasia to ask some questions and have a look around. He is a little reluctant at first, but finally agrees after a lot of persuasion on my part. His only conditions are that I call him 'Bill' and that I introduce myself as being his girlfriend, because that, apparently, will offer me some degree of protection.

Hey, I'll take what I can get. I think I might bring my mace, just in case.

—

Temperance Brennan does not believe in vampires. Well, not the traditional sort of vampires, which are basically dead people who rise out of the grave to prey on the living. Dead people do not get up and walk, period. She should know. She makes a living out of working with dead people, both modern and ancient. None of them have ever gotten up and walked anywhere after their deaths.

What she does believe is that there is a curious sort of disease and mutation that causes people to become allergic to the sun and also to develop curious dietary requirements. The fangs are a bit of a mystery, but she's certain that there is a scientific explanation behind them too. Perhaps the next stage of human evolution? She would know more if she could persuade one of these 'vampires' to get x-rays.

Booth pulls up outside 'Fangtasia'. From the outside, it looks just like any other nightclub. For Brennan, it's just another place where people show themselves off as being sexually available.

The two of them got out of the car and ignored the cue of eager 'fangbangers', which are what vampire groupies are called in the vernacular, and head straight for the 'vampire' manning the door.

The bouncer is in skyscraper heels and a strapless leather dress that falls to mid-thigh. Her fangs are fully extended, and both her nails and her lips are painted blood red. Red, of course, is the colour of power and passion. She might as well have written 'sex' all over herself as far as Brennan is concerned.

"The queue's over there," says the woman. Most women tend to eye Booth. This one, however, doesn't seem to care much for the agent. Her eyes are on Brennan, and she seems to be liking what she's seeing.

Booth flashes his badge. "FBI," he says. "I need to talk to the owner of the establishment."

"Fine," says the vampire. "Go on in."

Brennan follows Booth inside the club. Before the door closes, she catches the woman winking at her. "Drinks are on the house for you," she says.

—

Because he's a vampire, Mr Compton—sorry, _Bill_ gets to jump the queue. Since I'm his "date" —note the inverted commas— I get to jump it with him. It's one of the perks of being with a vampire, I guess.

The vampire at the door checks my ID as the people in the queue glare at my back. I can hear their vitriolic thoughts. Some are thinking I'm too fat. Others are wondering if my boobs are fake. As if I would risk putting silicone implants inside myself, especially since they could very easily kill me if they rupture.

She finally hands back my ID. "Good luck getting out," she says.

Red lighting plus the pseudo-gothic décor plus the disco ball makes the interior of Fangtasia incredibly tacky. It's a good thing that the patrons are too busy trying to get themselves a vampire or else they'd have noticed it too. That, and the severely overpriced drinks. I work at a restaurant with a bar. Trust me, I know what a gin and tonic costs. It's not even great gin.

—

His eye is immediately drawn to the man on the stage. Dais. Altar. Whatever it's supposed to be. It's quite hard to _not_ notice the guy when he's put himself so prominently on display. Judging by the way most of the people in the club are unconsciously leaning towards him, Booth figures out that he's the main attraction of this place. For sure it couldn't possibly be the great customer service or the incredible music. Well, at least not for people who frequent the nightclub scene.

"I love this music," Bones whispers loudly to him. Ah yes. Good ole Bones. She likes her music, but her tastes veer towards the classics and she doesn't listen to the radio when she's driving. When Booth drives, he likes to listen to the news. This station is the new 'vampire' station, run by humans, of course. There's a lot of wailing guitars on it, and the DJ is called 'Connie the Corpse'. "And do you see that man?"

"Yes, I see 'im, Bones," says Booth. "That's the owner, Eric Northman. Be careful. He's a vampire."

Bones laughs. "He is impressive!" Then she catches herself not focusing. "Sorry."

"It happens to everyone," says Booth. He was rather distracted by the woman at the door himself and…is that the waitress from Founding Fathers sticking out like a swan amongst a bunch of crows with her prim white flowered dress? There's no time to worry about other people's private lives. He has a murder to solve and someone to question.

The vampire on the throne does not blink as the two approach him. He does look up. Booth flashes his badge. "FBI Special Agent Seeley Booth," he says. "This is my partner Dr Temperance Brennan from the Jeffersonian. We're here to ask you a couple of questions."

The other vampire, the woman at the door, silently slides behind Northman and places an arm across the top of his throne.

"I'm intrigued," says Northman. "I am running a legal business here." His long legs are stretched out before him. He drapes himself over his throne the way an alpha male lion would lie on a rock in the Serengeti, watching over his pride. Discovery Channel is a very useful educational supplement for guys who have never been interested in or good at science. Like Booth.

Those tight leather pants he's wearing show off his…uh…assets to their best effect. It's very hard not to notice what a large man he is, in every way. "Are you impressed, Dr Brennan?" asks Northman, who is practically ignoring Booth. Shit. This interview is not going well.

"Size does not guarantee skill in bed," says Bones matter-of-factly.


	2. The Conundrum in the Plan

**Bones of the Dead**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize.

**A/N: **Sorry for not updating! I've been inundated with work and assignments and learning to do radio/TV/court stories all at once! Anyway, hope you enjoy!

**Chapter 2: The Conundrum in the Plan **

Pam is having some difficulty trying not to laugh. In her entire life, she's never heard _anyone_ undermine her maker's sexual prowess, yet this very human woman has just said, in the most deadpan manner, that she isn't sure if Eric's really that great. She can feel Eric's annoyance and utter shock. Perhaps not all breathers are unbearable. For sure, she can tease her maker about this later. Oh, she hasn't has such good ammunition for quite some time.

"Is that so?" asks Eric.

"Yes," says the woman. She's not afraid of him. She should be. Perhaps her survival instincts are not very high?

"Perhaps I should give you a demonstration, Dr Brennan?"

"I'd take that into consideration if it weren't so unprofessional, because you are very attractive."

"Bones," says the FBI agent. "Do you remember why we're here?" He cocks an eyebrow. Eric raises _his_ 'eyebrow of doom'. That's what the Fangtasia staff calls it, at any rate.

"Yes," says Brennan. She seems to be displeased with herself for having been distracted by Eric a second time. They both heard her when she first commented on how impressive he was.

The FBI agent hands Eric a file. Inside are head-and-shoulder shots of two girls. Their lips are blue in death, and their skin is translucent like wax. The fluorescent lighting of the morgue or wherever they took these pictures didn't do them any favours. "Do you remember any of these people?" asks Booth. Pam remembers the two girls. One was too pathetic for Eric's taste. He enjoyed the other, even though he later said she was too thin for his liking. Neither of them were to Pam's taste.

Eric flicks through the pictures. Apart from the two dead girls, there's also a picture of a much more familiar face. Liam. Talk about someone with low standards. Eric isn't a very discriminating vampire when it comes to a feed and a fuck (the two Fs, in vampire vernacular) but even he has a bottom line. Liam, however, doesn't seem to have one. How did the FBI get a picture of Liam fucking Eric's rejected meal? And, of course, the meal has to turn up dead later on. Pam's beginning to wonder if the news is right and there really is a vampire serial killer out there.

"I remember the two girls," says Eric as he hands back the file. "They were very much alive when they left."

"We have surveillance footage if you want proof," says Pam.

"Perfect," says Booth. "We'll need all of your tapes. And what about the vampire? Do either of you recognize him?"

Eric leans back in his chair and rests his elbows on the arms. He puts his fingertips together to form a tent with his hands. "Agent Booth, the vampire community may be small, but it's not that small. We don't all know one another."

"Do you really think you're a vampire?" scoffs Brennan. "That's ridiculous!"

Instead of answering her, Eric drops his fangs. The FBI agent's hand immediately flies to his gun, as if that can help them if Eric really wanted to kill them. Brennan recoils slightly, but only for a split second. Then she's back in full force.

She wants Eric to have an x-ray.

Pam hasn't been quite so entertained in a very long time.

—

I've been feeling nervous on Dr Brennan's behalf for the past half hour. Yes, I'll admit that I've been monitoring her mind, and Agent Booth's too. Hey, sometimes you have to do a little evil in order to do a greater good, right? Besides, it's not a federal offence to read an agent's mind.

Originally, I intended to question this Eric Northman myself, but when Agent Booth and Dr Brennan showed up…well, they're much better at asking questions. Although Northman might not be telling them the truth because they're with the FBI. From my experience, most minority communities tend to not trust the police and their counterparts. Me, I'm different. I'm a waitress and I pose no threat to anyone.

I feel someone's hand on my head. Bill. He's trying to turn me towards him.

"What are you doing, Bill?" I ask.

"You're staring," he says, sounding displeased.

"I know what I'm doing," I say. I get up. "I need to talk to that guy up there."

—

He notices her as soon as she walks in through the door. He just has to deal with the FBI agent and his rather amusing partner first. The girl doesn't belong here with the dregs of humanity. Her bone structure, the way she moves, they all point back to her bloodline; a bloodline that is more royal than any king or queen who ever walked this earth. Eric can see Fintan in her face and her mannerisms.

She approaches the dais after the FBI agent and the forensic anthropologist leaves, with Bill Compton behind her acting as some sort of escort. Compton clearly isn't happy to be here. "Bill Compton," Eric drawls. "What a nice surprise."

"Sir," says Bill stiffly.

"Who is your companion?" asks Eric.

The girl sticks out her hand, clearly expecting a handshake, as is the usual human custom. She knows nothing of the supernatural world, clearly. "My name is Sookie Stackhouse, Mr Northman," she says. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Vampires do not shake hands, but Eric takes her hand in his. She is warm. Her pulse is racing and he can smell the adrenaline in her sweat. He kisses the back of her hand. She smells sweet. Almost too sweet. He's enraptured by the exquisite creature standing in front of him. Tonight has been a most interesting night, firstly with the FBI and now this. "Miss Stackhouse, the pleasure is mine," he murmurs. "How can I help you?" He smirks as he sees Bill Compton become increasingly uneasy. Bill believes that his propriety far outweighs Eric's charm, at least when it comes to good girls like Sookie Stackhouse. Eric enjoys proving people wrong. He particularly enjoys it when it comes to 'stick-up-his-arse' Compton.

Sookie blushes most delightfully, enhancing her delicious scent even further. She's wearing no perfume, unlike the other girls who come to Fangtasia. Eric doesn't mind a bit of perfume as long as it's designer. Cheap perfume just smells…cheap. She takes out two pictures from her little vinyl purse and hands them to Eric. He notices it has a tiny little pattern of hearts and flowers. How innocent and naïve the girl is. It is refreshing after centuries of jadedness and cynicism.

"Do you recognize these girls, Mr Northman?" she asks.

"May I ask why you want to know?" asks Eric. He indicates that she should sit. Since there are only three chairs on the dais, Bill has to stand. He knows he's being a jerk. He's enjoying it immensely.

"My brother's a suspect in their murders, but I know he didn't do it," says Sookie.

"So you are out to prove his innocence," says Eric. "How noble of you." He hands the pictures back to her, making sure to just brush her hand. The contact sends something that feels like an electric shock through both of them. She jerks backwards, clearly frightened and intrigued —and frightened of her own intrigue. "I recognize them both. The pretty one, I have _had_ her. The other was too pathetic."

"I recognize them both too," Pam volunteers. "Neither of them were to my taste. You, on the other hand…"

"Sorry, I don't bat that way," says Sookie. "But it's very flattering." Maybe she's not as much of a good girl as Compton thought. Eric likes that. She's feisty.

"Well, if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me." Pam winks at Sookie.

"Pam," says Eric with a warning in his voice. _He_ intends to have Sookie Stackhouse for himself, thank you very much. "Why do you think that coming to Fangtasia will help you prove your brother's innocence, Miss Stackhouse?"

"Well, I thought…maybe…you'd know who did it…" the girl replies.

"And why would you think that?"

"Because they had bite marks on them."

"Were they drained?"

"No." She sounds certain. Too certain. Eric narrows his eyes at her.

"How would you know that?" he asks.

"Because…" Behind her, Bill is also frowning, although it is not a frown of confusion. He looks as if he's frowning because he wants her to stop talking.

Suddenly Sookie's eyes widen. "We have to get out of here," she says.

"Why?"

"Because there's going to be a raid, and a vampire just took a man out back." She looks at him desperately, hoping that he won't ask her more questions. "Please, just trust me on this one."

Eric cannot read the hearts and minds of people, but he over the years, he's learned to recognize the scent of deceit. He doesn't smell it on this girl. It's better to be careful, and there's something about this girl.

"Pam, deal with it," he tells his child in Swedish. Pam rolls her eyes but hurries off to do his bidding anyway. Sookie stares at the spot where she occupied a split second ago. The poor sweet girl still has such a lot to learn about vampires. He wouldn't mind teaching her, especially not about the more pleasurable aspects of life with the undead.

—

Booth is furious. Of all the times the locals have to conduct a raid, why _now_? What's worse, they haven't found anything. Now there is every chance in the world that the murderer might have heard something about it and gone into hiding, and they might also have ruined the bureau's relationship with the vampire community forever. Northman might have thought that Booth was responsible for the raid. Getting information from them just got a whole lot harder.

"They didn't give us anything useful, Booth," says Bones as she bends over the…uh…bones on the steel examination table. She requested the remains of the other victims of the Strangler from the other coroners. No, Booth doesn't approve of the name, but he doesn't make them up. "He practically sawed through her neck."

"What?" says Booth.

"The killer," says Bones. "He pulled on the murder weapon so hard that he almost cut off her head. He used something thin, like wire or fishing line."

"That shows a lot of hate," says Sweets, who is observing from a little distance away. "Does it say whether the victim had bite marks?"

"There is nothing to prove that those puncture wounds were caused by teeth," says Bones.

"Bones, we went to a vampire club last night."

"I concede that those people's fangs are capable of causing such wounds, but you need more proof to definitively say that the victims were bitten by your so-called vampires." She picks up a finger bone and examines it with a magnifying glass.

Cam strides up the steps with a file in her hand. "I got the results on what I found under Dawn French's fingernails. That girl put up a hell of a fight." She hands the file to Booth, who flicks it open but waits impatiently for her to tell him everything. It's quicker that way. Cam knows how he rolls. "The DNA is male, and there are some particulates that correspond with what you would find on any road in DC. I'm having Hodgins analyze them in more detail."

"We should visit the women's apartments again," says Booth. "Maybe we'll find something there."

—

I have been thinking about last night, about Eric Northman, and about the strange way Bill behaved. The more I think about it, the more I feel that Bill didn't want me to meet Eric. I get that Eric's some sort of vampire head honcho and he's considered to be very attractive—let's face it; he is very attractive and I've been thinking about what he would look like emerging from a lake all wet like Colin Firth in the BBC's production of Pride and Prejudice. He'd look even better than Mr Darcy.

After the police left, Eric asked me what I was. I had no choice but to tell him. Unfortunately, that meant telling Pam and Bill as well. Eric said he would call on me because he would have use of my abilities in the future. All the while, he was trying to look down my top. Mr Northman is a veritable expert in multitasking.

"Earth to Sookie!" says Tara, waving a hand in front of my face. "Mushroom pasta's ready. What's gotten into you, girl? You looked like you're in love. Good date?" She knows I went out with Bill last night.

"It wasn't a date," I say. "I needed his help."

"With what?"

"I wanted to check out that vampire bar."

"Sookie! I didn't know you were the type."

I deliver the pasta to table five. The guy there barely looks at me. He's too busy trying to stare down his female companion's top. Should I tell Tara about what I'm trying to do, or should I keep it quiet? I go back to the bar. It's past lunch time, so it will be a while before the restaurant is busy again. Plus, I'm on lunch shift. I won't be here for dinner.

I intend to go back to Fangtasia tonight. I need to speak with Eric. I don't know why, but somehow, I get the feeling that he will be able to help me catch this murderer. I'm not going to ask Bill. He almost got drained so I'm not sure how good he would be in dealing with a serial killer. Besides, Eric's the head honcho. He's probably got more resources.

Fangtasia is filled to the brim with people. Pam, however, waves me through. "I was wondering if you'd come back," she says. "And you still don't fit in."

"I'm not here to fit in, Pam," I say. "Is Eric around?"

"It's always about Eric," says the female vampire. Is that a pout I see? "It's not fair that he's so lucky."

"That's not true," I say. "That brunette over there is wondering if you'd bite her."

"Hmm, I think I might be able to tolerate you," says Pam. "And by the way, I wouldn't wear that colour if I were you. It fades you out." I look down at my champagne coloured top. What's wrong with it? However, I'm pushed inside by the crowd of people outside, and I don't have the chance to ask Pam why she doesn't like this colour on me.

Eric is on his throne, looking very bored again, but he smiles when he sees me and gives me a generous flash of fang. "Well, hello, Miss Stackhouse," he says when I come to the edge of the dais where is throne is. "I see you are without Compton this time."

"Is now a good time to talk, Mr Northman?" I ask.

"Are you sure you simply want to talk?"

"Yeah, I really am just here to talk." Down, libido! '_It's just hormones_,' I remind myself. '_Seratonin and something else._' Science is the least sexy thing I can think of. It's not doing one bit of good. I try to think of something else. Like…murders. Yeah, that does the trick. The Strangler is too serious, and I need to get to the bottom of this before the FBI hauls Jason in again.

"What a pity, then, for me," he says. He indicates that I should sit and he rests his elbows on the armrests of his chair. "What is it that you wish to talk about, Miss Stackhouse?"

"I was wondering if you could help me," I say. "I have a theory about this serial killer. All the women he killed had bite marks on them. Well, puncture wounds that look a lot like vampire bite marks, anyway."

"This information has not been released," says Eric, raising an eyebrow. "I checked. How did you get it?"

"It's not a federal offence to read a federal agent's mind," I say defensively. "At least, not yet." He laughs.

"I like the way you think," he says. "Go on."

"Well, that seems to be the only thing these women have in common and I was thinking that this is the motive for killing these women."

"You think the serial killer might be after fangbangers?"

"I don't like that word," I say with a grimace. "But that's basically the idea."

"It's not incomprehensible," says Eric slowly. "How does your brother feel about fangbangers?"

"He doesn't like them but he wouldn't kill them either," I say firmly. "And I read his mind so don't go telling me that I might not know him as well as I like."

"Fair enough," says Eric. "Do you read vampire minds?"

"No. You are completely silent to me."

"Have you ever tried?"

"No, and I don't want to."

"Are you afraid you might like it?"

I don't need to read Eric's mind to know what he wants. Men usually only ever want one thing from a girl like me. He's not getting it. Not now, anyway. I'm not a psychic so I can't predict the future. Let's just say I'm not repulsed by the idea of getting to know Eric Northman a little better. "I'm here to ask for your help, Mr Northman."

"You mentioned that," says Eric. "What can I help you with?"

"I want to get the killer and exonerate my brother," I say. "Hunting for him would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack, but if we know what he wants, we can get him."

"He wants to kill people," says Eric.

"He wants to kill girls who sleep with vampires," I amend.

"There are many of those," says Eric. "You cannot possibly predict his next victim, unless you are psychic as well?"

"No, but maybe we can…fix the results?"

"You want him to target a certain girl so he can be caught in the act?" The vampire leans forward. "Who is this girl in question?"

"Well, I've only got me," I say with a shrug. "Will I do?"

"You are not a fangbanger," Eric points out.

"True," I say, "but I can pretend to be one."

"Forgive me, Miss Stackhouse, but I do believe you need a vampire in order to make yourself appear to be a fangbanger. I suppose you could stab yourself in the neck with something sharp, but I don't recommend it."

"That's why I'm here." I blush. "I was wondering…if you could help me put on this vampire groupie act. Superficially, that is. I mean…um…if…you know…I only need the bite marks. But if you don't want to, it's okay. I'll find someone else…" Eric's nostrils flare. He takes a deep breath, even though I know vampires don't need to breathe.

"Miss Stackhouse, it would be very selfish of me to refuse you," he says. I don't think he really means it. He's grinning, after all. It's a very fangy grin that makes me scared and excited at the same time. You know, you sometimes have to think about why all these people are so eager to be bitten. Either there's money in it, or there's something about being a vampire's donor. Since all those…uh…_donors _are willing to pay money to get into Fangtasia…well, you get the idea. Eric's grin widens as he takes in the slight change to my scent. "You have a deal, with some conditions."

"What are the conditions? You're not going to make me have…sexual relations with you, are you?"

"Not if you don't want to," says Eric. "I have a suspicion that you do want to." He taps his nose. My face must be red enough to light up Santa's way from the North Pole. "However, that is not what I am talking about. You have a rare gift, Miss Stackhouse. I would like you to be my…consultant on a case by case basis. And there is a terribly boring Independent Entrepreneurs' Association dinner that I must attend in a week's time. Pam has astutely chosen to take her annual leave then, and I do not fancy the idea of taking Ginger—" He glances over at a waitress who probably survives on a diet of cigarettes, water, and Tic Tacs. "—as my date. Your company would, no doubt, alleviate my boredom immensely."

"You…you're asking…_me_ out?" I squeak. Very smooth, Sookie. Very smooth.

"You want to be seen as a 'vampire groupie', as you called it, do you not?" asks Eric. "Then it stands to reason that you should be seen with one. With any luck, you might even end up in the morning paper, and that serial killer you want to lure out will have a much greater chance of targeting you."

I think about it. He's making a lot of sense, and his conditions are reasonable. It's not as if he's making me do anything I'd be totally uncomfortable with. If anything, I'm the one making an awkward request. "Done," I say.

"Great," he says. "I will have my lawyers draw up a contract." He smirks when he sees my face. "This is for your services as a consultant. Your little plan will be our secret." He winks.

"You have no idea how much this means to me, Mr Northman," I say, relieved that he said yes and that he's not asking me to do more in return. Honestly, I don't really know what I was thinking when I hatched up this plan, but I'm glad that my gut instincts were right. I think they were right. Maybe. I don't know. "I can't thank you enough."

"Please, Sookie," he says. "If you're going to pretend to be fucking me, then you should at least call me by my first name. I'm not into Austen novel role-plays."

—

One man's hell is another man's heaven. To Booth, Hodgins' office, with all those tanks full of bugs and slime and fancy equipment, looks like a place where unwanted junk is kept. The whirring of the machines and the bubbling of liquid creates a hum in the background. "Hey dude," says Hodgins. He looks even more like an alien life form than usual in his lab goggles.

"Cam said you have something for me?" said the FBI agent.

"I just got more results from the particulates I found on one of the victims," says the entomologist as he peels off his latex gloves and removes his goggles. "Get this; there were large traces of ethanol, isopropanol, butanol and urethane resin on the victim."

"Okay, stop it right there," says Booth, holding up his hands. "None of that means anything to me."

Hodgins sighs at his ignorance. Booth ignores that. "Those are ingredients often found in ink. Dry erase ink, to be exact," he tells the FBI agent.

"She was a waitress at the Founding Fathers," says Booth. "They write things on the specials' boards all the time."

"Ah, yes, but the Founding Fathers uses blackboards, not whiteboards," says Hodgins. "I haven't found anything at the crime scene which could be the source of those chemicals, which suggests the killer brought them in with him."

"So the killer used a dry erase marker at some point," says Booth impatiently. "That doesn't really help."

"There was a lot of it, so my guess is he works in a job where he has to use them quite often," says Hodgins. "I also found traces of hydrochloric acid, copper sulphate, nitric acid, citric acid, sodium bicarbonate, magnesium oxide—"

"What does that tell you?" asks Booth impatiently.

"I have no idea," says Hodgins. It doesn't seem to bother him. "I'll tell you once I figure it out."

"All right," says Booth. He knows he can't rush these scientists. For one, they don't like it when they're rushed. Two, accurate science takes time. "Thanks, Hodgins. Keep me posted if you find anything else."

"Will do," says Hodgins. "By the way, I have a question about Angela—"

"Bye Hodgins," says Booth. He's going to go and take another look at those hedonistic and ultimately very sad surveillance tapes. How can people have little enough self-esteem to actively seek out people who obviously despise them and pay good money for their condescension?

—

I have my vampire partner in crime. Now all I need is to tell Sam that I can't take the night shift next Tuesday because I have an interview —well, date— with a vampire. Don't get me wrong. Sam's not a bigot. He's got nothing in particular against vampires. He just doesn't trust them and he thinks they're dangerous. He's probably right about that. But still, I don't see why I can't trust Eric Northman. He could have done a number of things to me when I went to find him the other night, but he didn't. In fact, he was very gentlemanly. Well, as gentlemanly as he could be while trying to look down my top and get into my pants. I have to admit that he had an effect on me.

It turns out I don't even have to wait until I ask Sam if I could swap shifts with Arlene that night. See, I forgot something. Sam's also an entrepreneur, and he's going to that dinner too.

"Sookie, can I ask you for a favour?" he asks me while I'm just about to go on my break.

"Sure," I say.

"There's this dinner on Tuesday night for the Washington Independent Entrepreneurs' Association," he begins awkwardly. "And I was wonderin'…if…maybe…you'd be my date." I almost drop my purse.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but I can't," I say. "I'm kinda…going with someone else." I don't know how you can 'kinda' go with someone else but that's what came out of my mouth. What can I say? It's a real uncomfortable situation that no girl wants to be in. Your boss is in love with you and you're rejecting his request because you're going to the very same thing with someone else who he probably doesn't like.

"You're going to the dinner with someone else?" he echoes.

"Yeah…" I say. "I'm sorry."

"Who are you going with?"

I debate whether I should lie and make up someone. Then again, Sam would probably know if I lied. I'm not exactly a great liar, which is why I'm a waitress and not an actress. I can't pretend to be something I'm not. It's ironic because I'm weaving a huge lie to try and catch a serial killer. "Eric Northman," I finally say.

"You're going with a _vampire_?" Sam demands. "And not just any vampire, but _that_ vampire? How do you even know him, Sookie?"

"Mr Compton took me to this vampire bar, Fangtasia," I say quite honestly. Well, it's not quite as honest as it should be because technically, I made Bill escort me. However, he did take me there because I had no idea in hell where it was so I didn't lie to Sam. "I met Eric there and he seemed nice, so I said yes when he asked me out." I leave out all the little details which led to him asking me out. Sam doesn't need to know any of it. In fact, the fewer people who knows, the better. I haven't even told Gran yet and I don't intend to any time soon.

"You're crazy, Sookie," says Sam.

"That's what they all say," I say.

"You know what I mean! Eric Northman isn't just any vampire. He's probably one of the most dangerous vamps in the city!"

"I know," I say. I don't; not really. I kinda do know that Eric Northman is dangerous. I just don't know where he sits on the danger scale. "I'm the one who's dating him, Sam."

"Are you sleeping with him?" he asks. I hear the jealousy and rage creep into his voice.

"Yes," I lie. "What about it?"

"No, Sookie, you can't swap shifts with Arlene on Tuesday night. It's not fair on her to be doing two night shifts in a row," he says.

"What? Come on, Sam! You've never had a problem with us swapping shifts! I've done it for her before and I've talked to her about it and she said it was okay!"

"I'm the boss, okay?" says Sam. "I'm not okay with you swapping shifts whenever you please so you're not doing it on Tuesday night."

"You're just being unreasonable and petty and jealous! Why can't you just accept that I like this guy and that I'll never feel the same way about you?" Honestly, I don't know where that came from. I kinda do like Eric, but he's not even a friend yet, much less something more. I mean, he's one cool customer and I admire him for it, but I'm not about to tell him all of my secrets. Granted, I have told him one of the two secrets I keep, which is one more secret than Sam knows…

"That's low, Sookie," says Sam quietly. "That's really low."

"I'm sorry, Sam," I say, immediately feeling terrible about it. I don't know what's gotten into me. Perhaps it's the stress of trying to exonerate Jason. Perhaps I'm just feeling defensive because he's judging Eric based on the sole factor of him being a vampire. I don't like it when people generalize about certain groups. I don't like stereotypes and I don't like discrimination. Ignorant hate is such an ugly thing. "I didn't mean to say that."

"But you did mean it, didn't you?" he says. I have no answer for him. "Listen, Sookie, you go do what you want with your life, but if it's going to be like this, then I don't think I'm going to be able to work with you anymore. It'll create too much tension."

"Are you firing me?" I whisper.

"No, I'm asking you to resign," he says. "I'll give you good references if you need them for your new job, and I'll give you a week's paid leave, but Sookie, you can't stay here."

"You're going to ask me to resign because I'm dating a vampire?" I am dumbstruck. How can he do that? Is my dating a vampire going to affect my work? I don't think so. "All right, Sam Merlotte, you know what? Fine. I'm resigning now. I'm just really disappointed in you. I thought you were a better man than this." I take off my apron and throw it at him. Childish, I know, but I can't help it. I'm hurt that he asked me to resign. I guess it's more reasonable than firing me, but still, I can't believe how narrow-minded Sam's being. It's like I don't know him at all.

Once I'm in my car, I just sit there in the seat, taking deep breaths. I don't feel like going home. I don't know where to go. Oh, stuff it. I need a drink and something to take my mind off the fact that I am now unemployed, except for my deal with a vampire. I flick on the indicator and turn onto the road. I'm heading to Fangtasia.

—


End file.
